Sunday, 29 March 2015

I hopped along the stoney road at night.
This was my whole raison d'etre, all I'd planned.
The time had come and everything seemed right.
I saw my love hold out his tiny hand
He swore his love,"I'm yours dear to command."
"Then climb aboard, I love you at first sight."
I crouched down low and rested on my feet, outfanned.
I hopped along the stoney road at night.
For spring, and love were here for my delight
And underneath my toes was mud and sand.
I felt no fear beneath the silvery light.
This was my whole raison d'etre, all I'd planned.
I knew my duty though I did not understand
How urgent was the need to act: inspite
Of all my instincts, time slowed down and nature's scheme was grand.
The time had come and everything seemed right.
Then on an instant all my skin felt tight
The weight upon my back was more than I could stand
And then I burst. This was my final sight:
I saw my love hold out his tiny hand,
I saw the look of terror which I could not stand,
I saw a car retreat into the night,
And then no more and time seemed to expand,
And then my soul took flight
I hopped along.

I hopped along the stoney road, the dark
Black night was silent and I knew that soon
I 'd see my love beneath the crescent moon.
I sang a little (something dull by Bach)
And listened to the other frogs remark
Upon the season's weather as my tune
Chugged on and grew quite riveting, 'no lark
More blithe than me.' No lark more deaf and blind.
I thought it was my love at first, but no
What touched me was not his amphib'ous hand
He did not speak nor climb up from behind.
It was a car that mounted me and so
I lay, squashed flat and ground into the sand.

Thursday, 26 March 2015

Death is not a choice
It comes quite of its own accord.
You may invite it,
And it may take you at your word
Accepting joyfully your invitation.
Or you might voice
A clear desire to fight it,
At which it may just feel an obligation
To fight back. Therefore rejoice,
Not 'living each day as if it is the last,'
But realizing dullness also has its merit
We can't undo the past
Nor can we alter much the natures we inherit.

Wednesday, 25 March 2015

Tootling and rocking in my chair
I play The National Song Book, and each air,
Remembered and performed, sans care,
Annoys the cats, whose hair,
Stands up on end. For they can't bear,
The Mermaid, Londonderry Air,
Tom Bowling or Begone Dull Care,
They wish to know not where
The bee sucks, or the fate of any lady fair.
It's not because they're
Musical. They're
Cross because I dare
To sit and stare
Just pootling and tootling and rocking in my chair!

Tuesday, 17 March 2015

To find one's marbles, that would be a feat,
Beneath the floorboards, in the stuffed full drawers.
To show one knew one had them; what conceit,
Arrogance! There must be something that restores
A marble to its nestling place without
The satisfying smugness that would surely follow
This event. Sanity with some self doubt.
Just the right amount to act as glue or peg
To wedge the marble in its place. My mother
Knew a lady once who kept them in her mouth,
But did not swallow,
Instead of plums. She spoke like lots of other
Women of her class, like someone from the south,
Only more so, which makes me think the strain
Was much too great. And juggling hard, glass balls
Upon the tongue, is not itself quite sane,
Although they can be seen (so others know you haven't lost them).

Behind the walls

Between the plaster and the panelling
Would be a better place, among soft dust
Where they couldn't chink together and bring
Notice. And where one could feel them and trust
To ancient, sticky cobwebs and to grime
To make them fast.

Tuesday, 10 March 2015

The Judas trees are blooming at the sewage works,
And the process of filtration works its wonder,
And the shit breaks down and leaves the clear waters
And they flow back through the sand beds to the river.
And the sun shines on the Cercis Siliquastrum,
And the oyster catchers shriek their whistling cries,
And the egrets white as purity go fishing,
And nobody admits to telling lies.
Though we witness, devastation, murder, plunder,
And the vile rape and usage of our daughters,
Still the process of filtration works its wonder,
And the lipstick pink blooms under clear blue skies,
As the Judas trees drink of the clear water
And the ducks feed in the reed beds all a quiver.
And instead of acting we have only wishing
And instead of truth we just have what's thought wise
To believe in after process of filtration,
And there are no absolutes just compromise.
For moral relativity's our nostrum
And the cockerel crows three times at degradation
As the sun shines on the Cercis Siliquatrum
Where they grow around the tanks where all the filth lurks
And the process of filtration works its wonder
And each day's bright, not building up to thunder,
And the egrets white as purity go fishing,
As the Judas trees are blooming at the sewage works.

Saturday, 7 March 2015

Is anger really worse than the cold drip
Of constant criticism from a calm
Voice seemingly with patience filled? Words trip
Away to thin air, all of them. Is harm
That is a greater harm, caused when, they're sent
Upon their way with blasts of heat, or when
They're baseless, cold, and carping and incessant?
Does gentle rain in its relentlessness then
Not erode in time the hardest stone?
Does ice not gouge out valleys where it crushes,
Its temperature not bring pain into the bone
Of those exposed to it? Fire where it rushes,
Though it scorches as it passes, soon blows out:
Better then, than carping, is to shout.